


Covalent

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kissbingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse takes a breather, and Dean wants something more than whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covalent

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some point after 5x14. Written for my kissbingo table, prompt: _experimental: ice_ and lives in my SPN S5 [Bells 'verse](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/285340.html) fanon if you want to place it. Thank you to the lovely nyoka for the beta.

He and Sam each find a hunt, in Sam's case, from messageboards, and in Dean's, from a small item on a local news website. Sam's laugh, when they realize it's the same hunt, makes everything a few pounds lighter for a moment.

"Weregators," Dean says, stabbing his fork into his scrambled eggs. "Seriously, Sam, _weregators_? What, we're living in a Syfy Channel movie now?"

"You have a better name for them?" Sam dumps more sugar into his coffee, frowning at the print-outs spread on the table.

The apocalypse has taken a friggin' breather -- there hasn't been a flood, swarm of locusts, or earthquake in places where earthquakes have no business being for a week, which is about as long as it's been since Castiel has checked in. Dean shakes off the thought and pours more syrup onto his waffles.

The diner's the size of a trailer and has red-checkered table clothes with a single flower -- a daisy, for god's sake -- at each table. It's kind of stupidly cheerful, and they have to keep their voices low because in a place like this, of this size, anyone could easily overhear and think he and Sam were nuts. Not that Dean's ever cared about people thinking they're nuts but it's not unheard of for someone to wave a cop over to keep an eye on them.

"So I guess we should get our asses down to Alachua County, then?" Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says tiredly. He shoves his fingers through his hair, keeping his eyes down, and Dean feels a twinge, missing the time when a basic monster hunt could ease the tension, and it didn't get more basic that friggin' weregators.

And that's how they wind up driving for seven hours into the heart of Florida, and it feels like they're driving away from something, although from what Dean has no idea because the apocalypse doesn't exactly roll over and go to sleep no matter how hard Dean hits the gas pedal. He turns the music up loud, Sam doesn't even complain, and it feels good, being on the way to hunting something solid rather than dodging angel mind-fucks or dealing with the actual godamned anti-Christ and flocks of dead crows and shit.

Dean wonders, with Iron Maiden pounding at him from the Impala's speakers, if Cas is okay -- not that he's worried. When they get to Alachua, Sam goes into the motel office to get them a room, and Dean leaves Cas a message (only the third one that week).

"Hey," he says. "Check in if you get this, feather-brain."

He gives Castiel their location, figures he'll call, voice full of gravelly annoyance at cell phone technology, rather than show up (and Dean doesn't at all get a weird tug in his chest at the thought of Castiel showing up).

He welcomes the heat, more intense than usual for that time of year, after the thick clouds and storms. Dean sheds his jacket and tosses it into the car. The sun beats down on the back of his neck. He'll burn, which is a pain in the ass, and he'll put on sunblock later but for now Dean just leans against the Impala, watching Sam through the windows as he uses his slow smile to charm the girl behind the desk. Sam leans his elbows on the counter, sleeves rolled up. It catches at Dean yet again, almost two years since Dean was away (away, still so much easier than thinking _in Hell_ ), how much bulkier Sam is now, how his face has gotten longer and thinner. How many things Dean doesn't know about him, while he knows everything.

* * *

They interview witnesses, follow an old man's directions to a dirt track, and walk a few miles in the heat, sweat wearing away Dean's sunblock. His skin itches. Shit, he's definitely going to burn.

He and Sam kneel in the dust and look for tracks, shotguns heavy in their duffel bags.

The lead's a dud. There's nothing there.

* * *

The A/C rattles in the darkness. It's not the kind of sound that usually keeps Dean awake but right now it seems thunderous and intrusive. Despite the cool air, a thin film of sweat clings to his neck and is sticky on his arms. His skin is tight from too much sun, not enough sunblock, and he can't find a comfortable position to lie in.

Sam's snoring softly in the other bed and if it weren't for that damn A/C Dean would hit him with a pillow to shut him up but as it is, his brother's snores are almost soothing.

Almost. Dean gets up, pulls on his jeans, and doesn't bother to change his undershirt for a regular shirt, or put on shoes. It's habit, not much thought, when he pauses to pull up Sam's covers, which have fallen halfway to the floor, and tuck them back into place. Sam doesn't need Dean to do that kind of stuff for him, hasn't for a long while, but Dean's not going to stop.

Grabbing the room key and the ice bucket off the dresser, he slips outside, night air folding around him soft and heavy, cooler than before. Clouds half-hide the stars, but there's hardly any breeze. The concrete walkway scrapes rough against his feet as he wanders down to the vending machines.

He can't sleep anyway, too many questions crowding in, so he might as well go for the caffeine and sugar rush. Dean punches the button for a coke, and then another. The ice machine hums as Dean fills the ice bucket, crickets and the roar of air conditioners and the soft rush of the occasional car going by on the highway a counterpoint.

Sweat's tickling his neck, the condensation on the coke bottles making his hands slick. He wanders around back to the pool, puts the cokes into the ice bucket, and sits on the edge of the pool as he rolls up his jeans.

The shock of the cold water curls around his feet, between his toes, making him shiver once. The shock's good; at least he's feeling something.

Dean reaches into the ice bucket and scoops up a few ice cubes, then pops them into his mouth. The last dentist Dean went to told him it was bad for his teeth but he chews on the ice anyway, once it's melted enough.

Dean's finished off half a bottle of coke when the sound of wingbeats moves his heart out of its usual rhythms, relief and something else mixed in. Dean hopes angels don't have superhearing or shit like that; he hates the idea of Castiel picking up on anything.

"Hi, Cas," he says, without turning around, right before Castiel says "Hello, Dean."

Usually Cas greets him first and Dean enjoys throwing him off -- it doesn't begin to balance all the times Cas has thrown him off but he does it anyway, wants to push, to test.

"What're you doing here?" Dean says, slowly moving his foot in the water. The pool's underwater lights are on, and when Dean finally glances up, the water and light plays liquid shadows over Castiel's face and torso. He stands still in his trenchcoat, unruffled in the heat, although his tie looks a little more off-center than usual.

"You told me where you and Sam were," Castiel says, brows drawing down in puzzlement. "I thought you--"

Cas doesn't continue, and Dean has no idea what Cas was about to say, or what he would say back. He sure isn't going to start babbling on about how it's been over a week and Castiel is Heaven's most wanted criminal and there's an apocalypse and Dean's been imagining Lucifer or Michael or Raphael turning Castiel's body to ash and he's glad Castiel is _there_.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel asks, peering around.

"Asleep."

"How is he, after his ordeal?"

"He's okay." Dean takes another swallow of soda, cold tingle of carbonation on his tongue, burning down his throat. It's not whiskey, but he's craving something sweet tonight. "He's good. We're good."

Sure, everything's all good.

He glances up, and Cas is still standing there, shoulders straight, at the edge of the pool. "Jesus, Cas, it's hotter than shit, take off the trenchcoat already, will you? I'm feeling overheated just looking at you."

Dean realizes how that sounds a split second after it gets out and then a second later doesn't mind as Castiel's mouth twitches a fraction, his eyes brightening.

After removing his coat and sports jacket and draping them both neatly over a deck chair, as if that weren't astounding enough, Castiel sits and removes his shoes and socks. He rolls up his slacks and comes over to sit next to Dean, easing his long, pale feet into the water, the rippled light playing over the curve of muscle on his calves, his white shirt, his face. His eyes look bluer.

The water makes a soft lapping sound as Cas stares at the bottle of coke Dean holds out to him. Castiel hesitates, then takes it and studies it before he unscrews the top somewhat gingerly, as if he fears it might explode. A hiss of foam spills out, sliding down the bottle, and Castiel makes a non-angelic slurping sound as he takes a sip. Cas drinks, and Dean watches the line of his throat, Adam's apple going up and down, stares at the stubble on Castiel's jaw.

Dean reaches into the ice bucket and grabs a few more cubes. He sucks on them, letting them numb his tongue.

Castiel's shoulder is nearly brushing his and his ankle, bony and slim, is inches from Dean's, water flattening the dark hair. Cas looks down at his own foot and Dean wonders if he's still trying to figure out how to be alone in that vessel body, remembers the shame and grief in his voice when he confessed Jimmy's soul was gone.

There's an apocalypse biting at their heels, and Dean hasn't shaken off all the hollowness in his chest -- him and Cas, empty in different ways -- and the worry about Sam, with Lucifer reaching into his head. It all makes it easy to fall into whatever this thing is that's been going on between him and Cas. It's easy to let go and take, stifling the guilt that he might be ruining Castiel or using him. Dean's skin is still hot, despite the cooler air around the pool, and it's not from the sunburn or the warm night; and meanwhile Cas hasn't asked him anything. He hasn't brought him any dire predictions or news or a mission.

He's just sitting next to Dean in his white shirt and rolled up slacks and loose tie.

Dean reaches into the ice bucket for more cubes, sucks on them, rolls them around on his tongue. Cas's ankle knocks against Dean's almost playfully, or it might've been an accident, and Dean hooks his ankle around Castiel's under the water. He'll punch in the face anyone who says he's playing _footsie_.

The contact, the slide of wet skin against wet skin, goes right up through Dean's body and he's going hard like that.

It's easy, easy to turn and face Cas, to find him watching Dean intently. Dean bites down on an ice cube, staring at Castiel's mouth. The ice starts to dissolve as he reaches up, digs the fingers of both hands into Castiel's hair, and pulls him in until Dean's lips are against his. Castiel's mouth opens, a demand rather than a mere invitation, and Dean slides in his tongue, pieces of ice moving from his mouth into Cas's.

Castiel's body jerks at the unexpected cold before his fingers twist into the cotton of Dean's undershirt, pulling insistently to get Dean closer. Putting down the bottle of coke, Dean reaches up to dig his the fingers of both hands into Castiel's hair, his foot pressing against Castiel's. He tastes the soda lingering sweet in his mouth, while Cas makes a sound deep in his throat, kissing Dean hard and rough, and Dean thinks maybe he's not the only one looking for somewhere to hide.


End file.
